hey, cow!

hey, cow!

in Georgia, there are two laws regarding cows and drivers. if you hit a cow during the daytime, it is the driver's fault, and he or she must pay for a new cow. however, if it's nighttime, the cow owner is at fault, and must pay to repair the damaged vehicle.

why all the fuss? well, cows are all over the roads in the villages, and fear not the oncoming cars. wherever there's a bridge, there's a small herd of cows. splud. splud. splud. that's the sound of cowshit as you cross the bridge. inevitably, because the cows refuse to move, each bridge is a one-lane bridge. one side is full of cows, the other, their fecal matter.

aaron, erim, and i were on our way back from kazbegi, driving through the dark twists and turns, as aaron is explaining the cow laws to us. suddenly, we jolt to a crawl as a small herd makes its way across the road. i notice in the hub of the action, a non-heifer rump, but rather a scurrying female.

a stickler for the law, i inquired,"whose fault is it if you hit the herder's wife?"

suitor

guram finally proposed. one evening, nino, dato, guram, and i went to a georgian restaurant down by the river. guram and i were chatting away in french while dato and nino were chatting in georgian. suddenly, guram looked at me intensely and proclaimed "you must stay."

- "what?"

-"you will stay, and we will marry. we will live here in the countryside."

as i squealed with laughter nino looked at us and asked, "what's going on?"

guram then began explaining in greater detail his plans for us in Georgian, sometimes speaking to me, sometimes to nino and dato. the more excited he got, the more he switched languages. the proposal lasted about an hour in a mixture of english, french, and georgian.

his plan is for me to stay in the countryside, feed the chickens, milk the cows, tend to the garden, and he will find work. we will have a little house, and no worries. after two years, we will go to Colorado.

nino said with her sly grin , "i think it's a good idea. you will never find a boy as good as guram. he is the best boy."

she may be right. but we will have to wait until the next lifetime…perhaps we'll come back as birds and really understand one another.

seedy

sunflower seeds. since the first day i arrived, i noticed the country is crazy about these tiny black unsalted specks. everywhere i go, someone is offering me a dirty handful of sunflower seeds. (the seeds are clean, the hands are dirty). typically, the Georgians will carry these little seeds with them in a cone of paper. the girls at the shelter love to force feed me sunflower seeds.

old women on the street set up little stools and sit all day and sell little paper cones filled with these sunflower seeds for about fifteen cents per handful. the other afternoon, as i was walking home, i was assaulted by a gold-toothed sunflower seed seller. she began jabbering at me in Georgian, trying to sell me some sunflower seeds. then she saw the very lost look on my face.

-"…kartuli?" (she was asking if i was georgian, or if i spoke georgian)

-"arra. bodishi." (no. excuse me.)

-"…ruske?" (Russian? she asked.)

-"arra."

she laughed every time i responded in georgian because how was it possible that i didn't speak Georgian, but knew how to say 'no'? she and i were stuck in a stalemate because she really wanted to sell me some sunflower seeds, and i really didn't want any. finally, she handed me a few, for free, and told me they were good.

-"didi modloba" (thank you very much) i replied and headed home.

when i arrived in the apartment, the first thing i noticed was that there were five little sunflower seed shells in the toilet. the housekeeper must have come while i was out.

tasty radium

the fruit is some of the best i've tasted. must be the radium. tasty radium. my favorite cherries are in season here (something like ranier cherries). there are a variety of peaches and nectarines, so juicy. there are little fruit and flower stands on every corner, and one or two in between. i've determined that the fruit is the only affordable thing in Tbilisi.

outhouse

where i work, there's a Turkish style outhouse. what does that mean? ok. think outhouse. now squat. toilet tissue? forget it. what's better is that everyone tries to feed me all day long, while giving me copious amounts of coffee. i've decided to work out of the office as often as possible, avoid any form of sustenance while at work, and to take advantage of plumbing before i leave home, and every other chance i get. i have so far dodged the Turkish outhouse.

don't look

you can observe a lot about a culture by the traffic. in the US, i can be at a red light at 3 am, without a soul around, and i will stop, and wait for the light to turn green. it could be five whole minutes, and i would still wait it out. 

traffic in georgia is a joke. the lines on the road , if they exist, are a mere rough guideline for where the cars might belong. lanes, however, mean nothing. if there is room to fit four cars in two lanes, there will be four cars, haphazardly scattered in those two lanes. the shoulder is merely another lane. i haven't seen one car stay inside the lanes, whatsoever.

the roads inside the city are potholed to the max. i will definitely need a chiropractic adjustment when i return home. some of the streets are old brick cobblestone, and the rest are just patches of concrete, asphalt, and whatever else they might have had handy.

traffic lights and signs mean about as much as the lanes do. not a thing. pedestrians do not have the right of way, and the cars will hit you. it is common for cars to jump the curb when turning a corner. jaywalking is necessary if you want to get anywhere. crosswalks are scarce, and are usually faded beyond recognition.

passing is a game. normally, if you see a car coming from you in the opposite direction, you wait to pass the car in front of you, right? in Georgia, you simply honk very loudly to let everyone know you are coming. the opposing car moves into the shoulder, the car you are passing moves over into the other shoulder, and you go straight through the center. i now have decided to ride everywhere with a blindfold. it is literally like playing Russian roulette every time i get into a car.

the cars range from newer mercedes (lots of mbs in this city) to soviet era bombers. air conditioning is rare. rolling down the window ensures you will suck down lungs full of exhaust. it seems as though bumpers and fenders are luxury items. i can actually see some sort of fluid tank hanging out of the front of nino's car. she has neither a front or rear bumper, but somehow she does have an AUTOMATIC ALARM. something is wrong with the steering wheel. she can't seem to turn the car without breaking into a sweat. i think it died in the middle of traffic about six or seven times today. that was an improvement from yesterday.

nagila

nagila

nagila is a woman who has come into my life by fate, i truly believe. she's forty-six and looks like twenty-six. there is nothing 'old' about this woman, except her wisdom. in so many ways, we are kindred spirits. she demanded that nino let me stay with her and her husband, don, upon my arrival. i was only to stay a few days, but it's now been almost six days. i am so thankful she forced the decision.

her name is Arabic, and it means 'one who emanates love' . her name absolutely suits her. she is brazilian, with no Arabic roots. she's one of the most beautiful women i've ever met, from the inside out. in just a few days, she has mentored me about my time here, and about life. things that a young woman needs to know. our spirits are so similar, and yet in many ways we differ. we dream vividly, yet we are realistic and grounded. we sense things and are open to life as it comes. we view and feel life in a very real, yet different way from those around us.

she's taken care of me. she's my Brazilian momma. yet, she's also a sister, and even more, a friend. i adore this woman and her strength. when i'm trying to convince myself to do something, i ask myself, 'what would nagila do?' and the answer is 'she would go for it'. she's a nomad, a wanderer. but that is not what defines her. she has been to and lived in many places throughout the world, but she is nagila wherever she goes.

she's slender and feminine, and her smile is light itself. she is graceful, yet strong. she is deceivingly quiet, but when she speaks, she has something valuable to say. her laughter is from deep within, and it is contagious. she needs a song for every moment in her life. she reminds herself everyday that we only have today. and every day, nagila creates beauty.

katchipuri

katchipuri

i've been told time and time again that i have to try the katchipuri in Georgia. so, i did. it is a bread boat hollowed out in the middle with runny egg, salty cheese, and creamy goodness. you tear off part of the bread boat and scoop up the gooey mess. it is absolutely delicious for about 4 bites. then, it hits your stomach. it is certainly one of the heaviest things i've ever choked down in my life. thankfully, the taste is good. it's not like trying to choke down insects or bat dung. will i have it again? probably. in fact, after being filled in on the georgian cuisine, it will probably be the least offensive thing that i eat here. lots of pork, lots of heavy cheeses and the like. i've been fortunate to stay with don and nagila thus far, because don is an amazing chef, and nagila knows where all the best restaurants are.

you huff and you puff

you huff and you puff

the children have little plastic bags that they carry with them filled with a sticky white substance. it took me about three seconds to realize that these bags were mind-numbers. inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. inflate, deflate, inflate, deflate. the little pocket-sized bags contain glue. it's easy, cheap, accessible. when you live on the street with no prospects, why not? i watched as the children's eyes glazed over with every puff. not all of the kids use it, but most of them do. i can see already that some of them have used it long enough that there is permanent damage. little do they know what they are doing is permanent. and if they know, do they care?

it's like any addiction, and addictions are easier when you have nothing to do and nowhere to go. and if for even two minutes it lets you forget that you will sleep in the street tonight, that you have no parents, no job, no food, you'll do it for those two minutes of freedom.

one of the 'kids' had taken it too far the night i met him. he is probably not a kid. i would guess he is easily twenty. his eyes were distant. he was 'flying', dancing, acting a fool. clearly the group was not impressed with his behavior. the other kids looked at him with disdain. he was acting inappropriate. the other children watched him closely when he was near me, especially Guram, my little guardian. if he spoke to me, they told him to leave me alone. at one point, i watched from the distance as the entire group was on one side, and he was on the other. there was some discussion, Nino was taking the lead. i suppose they were speaking about his behavior, but my Georgian skills are nil.

guram

guram

guram met me with nino at the airport. he packed himself down with all my bags and was all smiles. he couldn't be more than 21. in fact, that's exactly how old he is. during the ride from the airport, he kept looking back at me, curiously, always smiling. i didn't know quite who he was.

once we were in Tbilisi, nino mumbled something to me, and i said 'yes!' enthusiastically, not knowing what she really said. we came to what looked like an alley, and guram opened the gate. where are we? Mkurnali. (this is the organization that works with street children) guram spoke with the children, introducing me. jzhana and another boy were there, sleeping outside on cots because it was cooler. we then left, without guram. that's when i realized he was one of the street kids. i was a bit confused because he seemed nicely dressed, clean, etc.

after i slept at nagila's for 8 hours, i went again with nino. she took me back to Mkurnali. it was then that i discovered that guram speaks french. he was able to translate from georgian to french for me. he speaks some english, but prefers french. in fact, he somehow managed to study in france for six months last year.

the more time i spend with this kid, the more i adore him. he's full of life, always joking, and he's certainly the leader of the pack. he's positive and responsible. in a way, he's also always taking care of nino. 'guram!' 'guram!' she's always yelling his name if she needs something. 'go get coffee' 'fix the computer' 'put this shawl on my shoulders.' i suppose in a way, he's been a great comfort to her, because her husband passed away eight months ago.

when we went to meet the kids on the street, he was constantly watching me, making sure none of the kids were making me uncomfortable. he would also translate for me in french, which made me feel far less on the outside. i asked him if he huffed glue, like the others, and he said that he had quit, which was such a relief to me.

there's something about guram that has captured me. i suppose that there's something about guram that captures everyone who meets him. i can sense that he has a very serious side, and that he is always thinking. but he seems to take life very lightly. the other day, he shared with me his tragic love story of yulia. he's in love with yulia, and has been for quite some time. she recently, however, became a prostitute and is nowhere to be found.

guram's older brother is in prison now. i forgot the term of the sentence, but it is several years. his mother is nowhere around, and i suppose his father is likely an alcoholic, much like most of the other georgian men. guram will be one of the hardest to leave behind.

hash

hash

until a week ago, i've only known about two kinds of hash: the kind that gets you really high and hash browns (with ketchup or a runny egg, of course). there's a third hash. it's a gathering of runners and walkers, of which few are athletically inclined. they gather about every other sunday and go to a remote area and run or walk on separate trails. not so weird, right?

the trails are marked by fellow hashers before the gathering…with flour. there is some odd concoction of what the different markings of flour means, but too lengthy to explain. all that is important, is that you are looking for the flour, and if you see it, you move ahead in that direction, and yell 'on! on!' so everyone knows to follow you because you've found the flour. for runners, there are false trails, so you can head in a direction for awhile, running your happy little ass through the mountain, come to a false trail, and have to turn around.

for my first hash, i walked. the point was for me to meet people anyway, not lose myself in the Tbilisi mountains. so you, walk or run for about an hour, and the trail eventually leads you back to where you started. now, the fun begins.

i can't repeat the songs or the chants or cheers. totally confidential, and actually, i forgot them. here's what i do know. technology is not allowed on a hash. (no cell phones!) you can only point with your elbow. you can't put your hand in your pocket (this is termed 'pocket billiards' ie. playing with your billiards with your hand in your pocket), no hanky panky on a hash, no one is allowed to be overly athletic (no stretching, pushups, etc!), and most importantly, you must respect the circle.

at the end of the hash , everyone circles up and get a cup. the cup is then filled with jug beer. (the beer in Tbilisi comes from a 'beer wall' in town…which opens first thing in the morning…drive through and get your jugs o beer). then, certain people are brought to the middle of the circle to do a 'down down'. a down down, as you can imagine is when you drink all the beer in your cup down down down down. i, being a 'hash virgin,' got pulled into the middle for a down down. no worries. i lost my virginity with five others, and about thirty people watching.

the baptism is the best. this is when someone has been with the hash long enough to be 'baptized' and is given a hash name. we had five persons baptized on sunday. praise god. there is an officiator of ceremonies (he gets a magical cloak and staff). everyone takes a handful of flour. the baptized persons come to the middle of the circle and kneel, facing each other if there is more than one. the name is given, and then everyone comes to the middle of the circle and throws flour on them. they are then given a huge ladle of beer to drink. the names this hash were: general short arms, short arms inspector (husband and wife), stone tablets, and french tickler (i forgot the fifth).

once all the beer is gone, everyone dusts off the flour and heads to town for a meal. sometimes it's at someone's house, and other times, it's at a restaurant. this particular time, it was catered at someone's house. wow. someone in Info Tech. wow. that's all i'm going to say about that.

belly dancing

belly dancing

all the expats here are learning to belly dance. now, i've joined the club. i thought it would be great fun; don't get me wrong, it is. it's more than just shaking what the good lord gave you, that's for sure. i had no idea how much of a workout it would be. my abs and my back remember the years of gymnastics. of course, gymnastics was far worse than this pain, but it's similar. it now hurts to eat, laugh, speak, move.

the feminine movements of belly dancing are unlike any i've ever seen. the contortions are amazing. i don't have the most feminine figure, and therefore it is not ideal for belly dancing. my instructor, however, thinks i have potential because of my flexibility and the curvature of the arch in my back. i have hips, and i have an ass, so at least i'm halfway there. i have to use what i have and make the most of it, i suppose.

our instructor, lana, is amazing. she's georgian, speaks russian, georgian, english, and god knows what else. her belly moves in ways you cannot imagine. she can make her body move in one smooth movement, as a wave in the sea. her bright red lips are the perfect match for her bold charisma. she teaches in a way that anyone can understand exactly how to move each part of her body.

the most awkward part of me is fingertip to fingertip. looking in the mirror, my shoulders look far too broad for my small build, and my arms look like long, skinny snakes. i feel somewhat like a hindu goddess. but if i focus on my stomach and my lower half, i'm going to be fine. i just need to figure out how to control these anacondas so that they appear more feminine.

women have belly muscles that men don't, on the inside, so that we can bear children. when you begin to try to move your muscles inside, that is what causes the immense pain the next day. you support yourself on your back, because belly dancing is done leaning backwards a bit.

the classes are two hours. forty five minutes is just stretching, and waiting for the pain to begin. the rest of the time, we learn steps, moves, contortions with our cute little jingly skirts on. the class ends with two dances, stretching, and a 'massage'. the massage is actually the moment where lana gets great pleasure from stretching us in directions we don't normally (and maybe shouldn't) stretch. i stopped when she asked if she could crack my neck from side to side. even i have my limits.

naqani

naqani! naqani!

i decided a walk was needed after finally sleeping a full eight hours, a shower, and eating a proper meal. i needed to see Tbilisi and clear my foggy jet-lagged head. Nagila recommended that i see the little park nearby. out i went. the only 'shoes' i have now that i can wear with skirts are flip-flops. unbeknownst to me , Georgians wear these only in the house. so i get a lot of stares at my feet. 'nice girl with beautiful clothes. why can she not afford real shoes?' i can handle the stares.

in the park, i immediately heard music, so naturally i followed the sound. Georgian rock music. quite a trip. unfortunately, i didn't have any lari to go inside the theatre and listen, but there were only men inside anyway. i heard enough from outside. i'm not skilled enough with words to describe the music, but it sounded something like 'mooo naaag naaaag. tsi tsi. moooo naaaag naaaag.' music similar to a US grunge rock band.

i followed the paths of the park to the people and fountain in the middle. along the way were teenage 'couples', families, tables full of men speaking about important things, typical park scene. there were tiny tables set up with little 'prizes' for sale. prizes=plastic junk made in china. popcorn was sold from the tiniest stand. in the middle of the park was a fountain. it was surrounded by a mini-fence, so no one played in the water.

after strolling for a bit, i decided to sit on a bench. approximately twenty-seven seconds later, a young man sat next to me, smiling from ear to ear, exposing a few missing molars. he quickly discovered that i was either a mute, or i didn't speak georgian. he thought this was hilarious, and continued speaking georgian. we finally discovered that we could have a little fun pointing at things, and exchanging georgian / english words. 'me tarzan, you jane' in Georgian translated to 'me Schmagi, you Lindsey in English. at first i thought his name was 'smog' and i laughed out loud, probably offending him.

there was an old woman in the park pushing a little cart around with what looked like a big cardboard box on it. 'naqini! naqini!' she sang. 'naqini! naqini!' i looked at Schmagi, 'what's naqini?' so he began calling 'naqini! naqini!' to the old woman, calling her over. i realized whatever naqini was, i would soon find out, and be forced to try some. the old woman excitedly pushed her cardboard cart over to us. she dug deep into the box and pulled out three different kinds of ice cream. Schmagi explained that i was american and didn't speak any georgian. she thought this was hilarious, and said all sorts of things about me, none of which i could understand. i ate my half-melted naqini, and realized this was my first georgian word. naqini! naqini!